


Sergeant Wilson's Lonely Hearts Club

by bopeep



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Artist Steve Rogers, Barista Sam Wilson, Choose Your Own Adventure, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Reader-Insert, Treat Yo Self, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Writer Bucky Barnes, go ahead date em all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9718493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bopeep/pseuds/bopeep
Summary: In exchange for a free Valentine coffee, you have to play along with the barista's matchmaking game. Luckily, your options aren't too shabby.





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve gone through distinct phases celebrating Valentine’s Day. Elementary school meant innocent, paper folds in shoe boxes from everyone in your class, reading too far into a superhero cartoon card that your crush had to give you because their mom said it was the nice thing to do (still: you kept that one for ten years.) In high school, you were hopeful but outwardly ambivalent; it was uncool to care too much. Chocolate roses, a first kiss. In college, there were sweet years where you managed a companion and there were sour years, when you drank and you drank and you drank and you shouted through living room dance parties to Robyn and Carly Rae and Bey with your best friends and you were so tired that when you got home you could only cry for so long before falling asleep.  
  
Now, it sneaks up on you in the middle of a work week, and you pretend to have forgotten all about it. Pink and red in every drug store, mountains of fresh roses at the grocer filling the produce section with sweetness, a rush of images to the brain: Paris, starlight, soft soft sheets, lipstick stains, an Ella Fitzgerald song somewhere in the back of your mind. You remind yourself it’s a capitalist nightmare and you don’t have to participate. The awareness is grounding, you think. You’ve spent enough of your years looking and wishing. It’s another day and it passes you by. You decide to sit with a coffee on the way home and read something frivolous, hoping to avoid the restaurant date crowd and the inevitable slough of sticky rom-coms tempting from Netflix.  
  
“Consumer America,” you say, perfectly tired, looking at the candy display on the counter at your favorite coffee stop. The cupcakes left in the case are all garishly blush, little doilies and paper cupids everywhere. The barista chuckles.  
  
“Any holiday that appreciates love and kindness can’t be all bad,” he says with a shrug. “What can I get you? Something for _your_ Valentine?”  
  
“Yes. My valentine is me,” you say firmly, shifting your gaze to look him in the face. You hadn’t expected him to be looking at you the way he was. The young black man is very handsome, grin wide and bright but his eyes challenging.  
  
“That right? Something festive, then?” He asks, his arms folded tight over his apron. The sound system is playing Dean Martin and he’s noticeably swaying to it. His tag has his name (Sam) surrounded in little red heart stickers. “We’ve got specials on specials for special folks.” You roll your eyes involuntarily.  
  
“How about a regular latte and maybe change the radio station,” you say through a sigh, more sadness there than you intended, and certainly less strength. Sam hums, your demeanor not affecting his in the least. You can’t help but feel he’s sizing you up. “What?”  
  
“I take it you’re not up for the Lonely Hearts challenge, then?” He asks as if it’s a joke.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“The Lonely Hearts challenge. We advertised it on our Facebook page,” he says. “You a Lonely Heart?”  
  
“Do I look like a fucking Lonely Heart, Sam?” You ask in a deadpan. You almost hope he’s willing to be honest with you; of course the answer is _yes_ , _you super-do._  
  
“I don’t know. I’m not here to judge,” he says, blessedly. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Y/N.”  
  
“Okay, Y/N. The rules are simple. Your drink’s on the house if you join any other single patron. Nothing funny, just company,” he clarifies. “It’s not speed dating. Just join somebody who’s alone. _Also_ alone,” he adds, significantly. You narrow your eyes at him and he seems to be holding a smile back just behind his eyes. “You don’t have to play if you’ve got somewhere to be. But making a new friend isn’t the worst way to spend an evening.” The idea is sweet. You have to admit you’d love to play this kind of game any other day of the year. The expectations of something like this today, however, make you a little anxious.  
  
“I brought a book,” you retort lamely, gesturing vaguely to the paperback tucked under your arm. Sam shrugs.  
  
“And I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from the shirtless Greek billionaire and his jaded but lovely personal assistant. Suit yourself,” he says with a smirk, turning to the espresso machine.  
  
“He’s not Greek,” you grumble, but you know he can’t hear. You can tell he thinks you’ll change your mind and you are resolved not to just to spite him (and frankly everything else about this holiday.) But curiosity gets the better of you as you look around the cafe. There are two young women chatting with each other and you can’t help but wonder if they were Lonely Hearts just moments before. A well-built blonde man is sitting alone in a table that faces the window, doodling idly. One man is folded over himself and a laptop in the corner, long dark hair falling in his eyes and shining in the light of his monitor as he types away furiously. A beautiful woman is sitting at a table at the other end of the bar, taking turns gazing into her cup and surveying the rest of the patrons. Sam is sliding a plate with two heart cookies to you when you turn back to him. You frown.  
  
“I didn’t order this,” you say pointedly. He nods.  
  
“A gesture of goodwill,” he says. “I’m not in the habit of forcing anybody to play games. Not very festive of me,” he says.  
  
“Thanks,” you find yourself saying. You hope you’re not blushing; you wouldn’t want to admit this is the nicest part of your holiday so far. “Are they all playing?” You ask him, hoping not to sound too curious. One patron in particular has caught your eye and it can’t hurt to ask, right?  
  
“Everybody at a red tablecloth,” he says, and it does not escape you that all but the two empty pink tables have red cloths, so you can’t start your own and hope for the best. “Wanna make a friend? Or sit quietly across from a stranger and read your steamy novel?” He waggles his eyebrows and you huff with exasperation. “Save five bucks…” He reminds you in sing-song. You’re smiling in spite of yourself and you finally concede with a nod, covering your face with one hand. His laugh is triumphant as pulls the milk from the steamer to pour a swirling heart design into the foam.  
  
“You really love this holiday, don’t you?” You ask, shaking your head as you pick up your drink and treats. He holds up his hands: _guilty_.  
  
“Call me Cupid,” he laughs heartily and you can’t help but forgive him. “Where should I send the arrow, Y/N?” You scan the room again.

* * *

“The blonde artist,” you reply. (GO TO CHAPTER 2: Steve)  
“The brooding writer,” you decide. (GO TO CHAPTER 3: Bucky.)  
“The mysterious redhead,” you say. (GO TO CHAPTER 4: Natasha.)  
“I’m staying right here, Cupid.” (GO TO CHAPTER 5: Sam.)

* * *

 


	2. Steve

The artist at the window is absently bopping to the music and you can't help but interpret the tingling in your fingertips as some internal necessity to know how strong his back and shoulders really are; he manages to fold an entire mountain into a frame he carries almost delicately. Sam follows your gaze and huffs.  
  
"Of course. You have my blessing. Go get 'em," he smirks. You suppose he's the most obvious choice, looking the most like a Ken doll in the place, but you decide he's the most likely to be polite and accepting of this whole awkward ordeal. You tell yourself this is going to be the easiest free drink you've ever earned; you don't even have to talk to the guy. You throw one last confident look at Sam, hoping it looks convincing, and carry your plate towards the artist's table. He doesn't notice you approach, pencil ghosting delicate lines over the paper. You're about to ask if you can join him when your eye catches on his paper. Among several faces and bodies sketched on the page is, unmistakably, you, on your cell phone in front of the cafe not ten minutes earlier. You almost drop your coffee and the jostle of china jolts him out of his reverie, turning abruptly and blushing from tip to toe when he realizes you can see his notebook. He scrambles to cover it.

"Fuck--- ah. Hi, hey. Sorry---" You can't help but laugh at him, all arms and fluster, as he meets your eyes and stills for a moment. "Sorry," he repeats. "It's just practice, I promise."

"Can I see it?" You ask, hopeful. He's still locked in your eyes, bright blue and suddenly sweetly relieved. He lets out a breath.

"Sure. I mean, it's only fair." You set down your treats and put your coat over the chair across the table. He watches you sit and nervously slides the notebook toward you. "I guess after hundreds of these I was bound to get caught by somebody." The lines are fast and flighty, catching what you imagine was the moment your mom was recounting a story of something funny her old dog did, but the form is delicate and thoughtful in spite of the speed.

"You're very good," you say, sliding back the notebook. "You can get back to it, I have a book." You set your paperback on the table and take a sip of your coffee, aware he's still awkwardly watching you. "Am I going to be distracting?" You ask, shaking him from a stare.

"No! No. Uh, I'm Steve," he says, extending a hand. "I'm sorry. I can't stop looking at your face now and thinking about how I should have drawn you, that's all." You frown.

"Y/N," you offer. "And I think it's pretty accurate, for what it's worth." He shakes his head, picking up his pencil. He erases a few lines from the page where your cheek had been.

"No, you have less definition here," Steve says, reaching out and tracing the line of your jaw with the eraser on his pencil almost instinctively before realizing he was touching you, pulling back as his voice trailed off. "Softer up close."

"I'm only human," you respond, taking a sip of your coffee to seem nonchalant about it and not nearly as into that graze as your fast-beating heart would indicate. You pick up your book. You get three words in before you chance a glance over the page at him. He's holding his coffee up, without drinking, and staring at you. "Is it really that bad?" You ask. He blinks before laughing himself.

"I'm so sorry! Really, I'm going to stop." He could stop traffic with that smile. If a train leaves Poughkeepsie at 3 going 100 miles per hour and a train leaves Grand Central Station at 3:15 going 85, both of them would screech to a grinding halt if Steve would just stand midway between and smile like this in either direction. You decide you're going to stare, too.

"Want to try again?" You ask, putting your book down. You rest your head in your hands and look directly into his eyes with a challenging smile. "Softer this time," you instruct. "Or is this too much pressure?" Steve's eyebrows twitch in what could either be fear or interest. He picks up his pencil without responding and flips to a clean sheet of paper.

"Softer this time," he repeats with a smirk. You hold his gaze as he flits between your eyes and his page, careful hand ghosting elegant lines. His hands are broad and strong but hold the pencil feather-light. "Stop looking at my hands."

"Says the man who won't stop looking at my face."

"Your face is worth staring at."

"So are your hands," you counter. "Been drawing long?"

"All my life," he says with a smile. It's quiet for a moment and you feel a settling calm as you watch him work, coffee warming your veins and his sweet eyes warming your heart (you realize with bitterness that the conversation is taking a turn towards First Date material, and that's kind of exactly what this could be.) Normally you would feel self-conscious about the details of your face, but the way he regards you puts you perfectly at ease. He asks you about your job and your apartment, and he is very jealous of your dog.

"Are you an art student?" You ask, aware now that you're both leaning in a little closer than before.

"No," he sighs. "Public policy Masters program. But drawing calms me down," he admits. You can imagine him in a suit, all diplomacy and handshakes, but it doesn't come nearly as naturally as the thought of him in a studio, covered in paint and--- the thought runs away into explicit before you can stop it and you realize with halting irony that "Unchained Melody" is playing in the coffee shop, like a moment straight out of _Ghost_. You look over to the counter and Sam is watching you two intently, grin a mile wide. You scowl at his presumption. Steve follows your gaze.

"You know my roommate?" He asks. You turn back to Steve, suspicious. He's shading your cheek bones with a caress you can almost feel.

"Not really," you say slowly. "Guess he roped you in because you live together?" Steve frowns down at his notebook.

"Roped me in to what?" He obliviously continues shading.

"The--- Lonely Hearts challenge?" You ask. His eyebrows knit. "You get a free drink if you choose somebody to---? For Valentine's?" Your words start tumbling out as you realize the barista straight-up lied to you. Steve looks up, surprised. "Oh my god..."

"You picked me for your Valentine?" He asks, incredulous. You bury your face in your hands. "Hey, it's fine. That's Sam for you. Come on, I can't see your eyes. I'm gonna have to wing it," he tries to laugh the situation off but you've invested too much time now to escape with any pride.

"There was no game," you groan into your sleeves, head down on the table. "I fell for it."

"If I were a little cheesier," Steve says quietly, a smile on his voice like a song on the wind, "I would say 'and I fell for you.'" It hangs in the air a moment and you look up at him. "Not as good as your romance novel, I'll bet."

"Pretty close," you admit. "I'm sorry I thought you were a Lonely Heart." Steve turns his notebook to face you, the most careful and affectionately soft rendering of your own face looking back. At the bottom, he's signed it:

_Steve Rogers, 2/14/17. My valentine._

His phone number is written underneath.

"What do you think? Did I get the second one right?" He asks, almost shy. You hold the portrait out with a critical eye and suddenly tear it from the notebook, setting it gently aside. "No good?"

"Too good," you reply, taking his pencil. You trace your hand on the new page and, turning the notebook towards him, gesture for his. He watches you as you place it on the outline of your own and slowly drag the pencil around it. It's a wonder and a modern miracle that the sparks and fire catching in your body's hollows don't cause your hands to tremble. When you set the pencil down, he catches your hand, smudging charcoal like a calling card.

He doesn't let go, and if the sound of a mug dropping to the floor behind the counter signals an invisible audience, neither of you can take your eyes away from each other.

And you certainly, definitely do not acknowledge the sound of any particular barista high-fiving himself enthusiastically as Marvin Gaye plays subtly in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I love you!


	3. Bucky

Of all the possibilities, the writer in the corner seems the least likely to engage and therefore the safest bet. He is totally oblivious to the world around him, much less even vaguely interested in Sam's matchmaking services. The barista follows your gaze.

"Really?" He asks. "Tall, dark, and murderous?" The writer doesn't look particularly dangerous to you but now you're worried.

"He seems fine," you whisper harshly. "This is your stupid game. What do you know that I don't?"

"Man, don't say I didn't warn you, that's all I'm saying," he replies, shaking his head. "Get yourself a bad boy, go with God." You grumble as you balance your coffee and treats and approach the man's table in the corner. He has spread handwritten pages on exactly half the table, no visible rhyme or reason to their arrangement. Colored tabs hang off the edges with notes scrawled in all different directions. A box of overturned candy hearts are scattered about and the writer is tapping away furiously. Three mugs line up alongside his computer: two are empty and the third looks cold. He doesn't notice you approach.

"Hey," you try. "Mind if I sit with you?" He continues to type but pushes out the opposite chair with his foot. You'd been hoping to hear his voice and get a read on his personality but make no progress. "Thanks," you reply. You set down all your things and sit down slowly, watching him. He doesn't lift his eyes. His hair drapes around him, unkempt but clean, and in spite of the warmth of the cafe he is wearing at least four layers of clothing. Beneath his hair, when you can glance at him over your coffee cup, you think he might be handsome, but you consider it very possible that you're only making this observation because he's supposed to be your Valentine match. You remind yourself that you chose this seat for the precise reason that he would not bother you, but can't figure out why you're inherently disappointed. You pull out your book and start reading when you notice one of his candy hearts has gone astray from his half of the table.

It reads, HEY STUD. You try not to smirk. What a weird thing for a candy heart to say! You haven't thought about candy hearts in a long time. You return to your reading, swept up in the world of the billionaire's personal assistant. She's shallow as hell but you're not here to judge, Sam's voice echoes in your head. When you go for your coffee again you notice another candy heart next to HEY STUD that surely wasn't there before, a little pink one that says U R A Q T. You nearly choke on your coffee. He's _not_ leaving you these on purpose; that would be ridiculous. He can't be that stealthy. You look up at him pointedly and wait. He makes no movement to engage; he keeps typing towards some unknown due date. You give up and return to your book, this time not reading but waiting to catch him moving the candy around. You reach for a cookie only to find the plate empty.

"What the fuck!" You exclaim. He finally smirks, slowly chewing on a full mouth of what is obviously your treat, or was. "Dude! Are you serious!"

"I traded you," he says finally, swallowing dry. He nudges the candies towards you.

"That's a shitty trade! I thought you were trying to give me cute messages," you say with a scowl. He finally looks up at you, hair falling aside and sharp steel eyes meeting yours with a smirk.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's Valentine's Day and you're a Lonely Heart," you say, putting your book down with a huff. He frowns, considering you in silence.

"You didn't pay for them anyway," he finally says.

"So you're stealthy _and_ you eavesdrop."

"I'm observant," he counters indignantly. "Good book?" He asks.

"No. That's why I picked it," you say honestly. "You writing one?"  
  
"No. Not a good one." His eyes holds yours. The mischief there is bright and engaging. "You got a name?"  
  
"Yes," you say, purposely curt. You go to take a sip of coffee and notice that there is another line of hearts where the mug sat and nearly spit it back into the cup. "How the fuck are you doing this?! Are you some kind of candy ninja?"  
  
"Special ops. Confections division," he says. He holds out his hand to you. "Bucky Barnes."  
  
"Y/N." You regard HEY STUD and URAQT with a huff. "These are so bad!"   
  
"I thought you liked bad," Bucky responds, a glint in his eye that highlights the ambiguity with flying colors. He leans back comfortably, arms folding over a broad chest where your eyes shouldn't but do linger.  
  
"Apparently, I do." You pop one into your mouth. The interest with which he watches you do so does not escape your notice. "You could write better ones, I'll bet."  
  
"You have a lot of faith in writing you've never read."  
  
"I don't judge books by their covers," you say, gesturing vaguely to his workstation. He picks up a heart and flips it over, writing carefully with a precise ink pen. When he tosses it to you, you see he's written FUQ U in tiny block letters. You look at him archly "The teens would love this one. You should quit your day job." 

"This one's for the romantics," he offers, sliding one over that reads CASH ONLY. You snort and it turns into a full-body laugh when he produces MISTAKE and WHOS YR FRIEND and SRY 4 HRPS. After a handful more, he's moved his laptop aside and is laughing with you.   
  
"Kind of a waste of candy now, though," you say, gesturing to the ink and wiping a stray tear from your eyes. He shrugs and scoops the candies away.  
  
"Depends on your definition of waste. Look how happy you are," he says.  
  
"I'm distracting you," you correct, deflecting. He considers it and nods.   
  
"You're right. Back to work." He pulls his laptop back between you and starts typing again, in short spurts. You pick your book up but find yourself imagining a protagonist that looks distinctly like yourself and a half-naked love interest that resembles, strikingly, the man across the table:  
  
_Enough with this pretense," the Greek billionaire Bucky Barnes hisses through the salty ocean breeze, strong hands lacing together behind Y/N's waist, his desire a monument in riding breeches. Deep in Y/N's bosom the heat and fire of burning suns ignites and in a swift tangle of bustle and petticoat the two inseparable lovers find themselves naked in the soft, sweeping grasses of the shore---_  
  
Bucky suddenly gets up with his three coffee cups and your empty plate and heads to the counter. Your eyes follow him involuntarily. He and Sam chat for a moment at the counter. When you turn back to your book, you notice the laptop is turned towards you. You let curiosity win and read over the top of your paperback:  
  
_19:15 Someone is at the counter and Sam has beguiled them. He is playing, spinning some kind of lie, trying to get this poor customer to celebrate a holiday so he can call it a personal victory for the day. Sam is not a bad person, but this game sounds cruel. The customer turns and looks out on the cafe and I'm momentarily gutted._  
  
_Is such a person attractive?_  
  
_Fuck. ????_  
  
_Their eyes are warm but wide and lit from within like a jack o lantern. The slopes of cheek and jaw are sweet and tapered, not lupine and cut like in catalogues, in movies, depictions of Mt. Olympus. Such a person (why?) triggers panic mode (why why?) that says "be cool, for once in your life be cool," because suddenly they sit down and consider me, eyes all over, so warmly that they must think I'm someone else, someone they already know, like, have complicated feelings about !!! beyond introduction, beyond time and self interest, the way light pours through stained glass and spills in fiery pools on cathedral floors their soul leaves their eyes and spotlights me in a halo. Whoever you think I am- whoever that person is- I have to try harder to become. That person must be interesting, astonishing, deified in such eyes._  
  
_I am typing a frenzy. Jesus Christ._  
  
_No, maybe not attractive, but attracting, active and possessing. Such a human breaks a thousand hearts a day, just by breezing in and out of the frame, on a crowded bus or street. Such a person breaks mine, simply, quickly, one blow, just by holding my gaze a little too long, a little too warm like the jingle of Christmas bells on a crisp night, only to echo the thought in my mind, "a light to match theirs is brighter than yours; someone else shines deserving." It's a hard thing to feel one's worth so clearly and quickly. To see such a remarkable human, something of myths and heroes, bright and mapped in the stars, you can't help but feel a little grounded, a little despair. They would reject this line of thinking entirely, they would be so turned off and disturbed to know you thought like this, be cool, for god's sake, for any sake, for their sake, don't be like this._  
  
_Be cool, be funny, be mysterious and aloof._  
  
_I should not have taken the cookie. That was weird._  
  
_I am going to devote the rest of my stupid fucking life to making them smile._  
  
_I am thinking too much, strategizing, missing the opportunity. At least shake their hand, say your name, be human, be warm. A remarkable human. Such a person is attractive, yes. Such a person could attract bees from their hives with sweetness, could attract fire from stone and water from air. Such a person would be dangerous if they had the inclination. They are not immortal, and probably they do stupid things like leave clothes wet in the laundry machine to become cloth-monsters, or litter, or call waiters by their first names, and they will forget my name. But: human, like me, and decent, and their eyes do a funny thing that makes my throat tighten, so why not try. Faults will come to light, like mine, and maybe we will stumble uniquely together. Like a waltz. They can probably waltz._  
  
_Surely, we could dance._  
  
Sitting on the keyboard is a conversation heart that says WANT TO?  
  
You return to your book. When he comes back from the counter with two new coffees, he sees his heart has a partner, a little orange candy with WANT TO! in your handwriting, and he smiles.   
  
"Better than my romance novel," you say. He shrugs, regarding you with a fondness that holds you captive.  
  
"Inspiration doesn't always come so easily."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I love you!


	4. Natasha

The choice is an obvious one: on any other day it's to the red-haired woman in the corner you might have thrown a smile, maybe even a flirty one if you felt bold. Sam nods in sympathy.

"Of course it's her. Alright, have fun," he says with a note of sarcasm. "No arrows necessary on my part."

You gather up your courage and your coffee and make your way towards the end of the bar. Before you can think to form any sort of greeting her eyes find you. She's on her feet and setting your things on the table for you like she's been waiting her whole life.

"Babe, finally! I thought you'd forgotten our date," she says, embracing you suddenly. She lowers her voice considerably, a hush on your ear. "Please play along, _please_."   
  
She smells so good that you're momentarily bewildered. You have no idea what that smell is. You've read a thousand descriptions of beautiful-smelling humans in romance novels and this experience is wildly beyond your vocabulary. Words would be an insult. When she releases you, slow and deliberate, you desperately try to be cool about it and not instantly wooed, won, and whipped.  
  
"Yeah, uh," you manage, testing the water, "I'm sorry I'm late?" You search her face for a cue and find nothing. She smiles too wide, her placing her hand on your cheek.  
  
"It's fine. I'm glad you came," she says with finality.   
  
"Me too," you say a little too quickly with a little too much honesty. She arches an eyebrow as her smile twitches, the mask faltering for just a moment, and motions for you to sit down across from her. She rests her chin in elegant hands, looking at you like you hung the moon somewhere in the cafe.   
  
"How was your day?"  
  
"Long. How was yours?" You ask, hoping to tease some information out of this bizarre moment. Before she can answer, her eyes drift upwards and you realize one of the women from the other table is standing behind you, her arms folded over her chest.   
  
"Having _fun_ , Natasha?" She asks.  
  
"Sharon, hey." The red-haired woman smiles like a viper. "Couldn't resist, could you?"  
  
"Stop," Sharon says coldly. You dumbly realize, in a corner of your mind, that if Natasha is fire, this woman is undoubtedly ice. You don't know which scares you more. She holds out a hand to you. "Sharon Carter. You must be Natasha's new someone."  
  
"That's me," you say, hoping you look at least twice as confident as you sound. "I'm Claire. I like your coat," you say, swallowing nervously.   
  
"Thank you. It's the Burberry winter line," she replies. There is a palpable silence. You could cut the tension between her eyes and Natasha's with a knife.   
  
"I could never see myself getting a white coat," you say with a nervous laugh, tumbling over words and trying to keep things from veering into murderous, which is the direction you worry this encounter might go. "You know, ah, weather and mud and puddles and stuff and what do you do if somebody hands you their baby or you want to pet a dog, you know? Like do you have to dry clean it every six hours? Do you have to look actual dogs in the face and not pet them because that feels like a sacrifice I---"  
  
"Are you spending your Valentine's Day in this coffee shop?" Sharon cuts you off, grinding your ramble to a halt. She tucks her blonde hair, pin straight, behind one ear. You idly think she's the kind of woman who lets conditioner soak in for the full five minutes. She probably times it. "Very _romantic_."  
  
"Uh. I---" You struggle to come up with a lie. Natasha doesn't miss a beat.  
  
"It's a surprise. I haven't told them yet." She takes your hands across the table and you think you would follow her straight through the gates of hell right now if the charade called for it. You kind of hope it does. Sharon's eyes flit over the gesture and steel by degrees.   
  
"I wouldn't worry, Claire. She's not the romantic type."  
  
"Good. I wouldn't have it any other way," you respond, insulted on Natasha's behalf. "That's why we're such a great match. Nat and I. All business... in public, anyway." You find yourself getting into some kind of character, the kind you think will most irritate this extraneous woman. Natasha squeezes your hand encouragingly.   
  
"Is that right?" Sharon seizes upon a thread. "Where did you two meet?" She asks pointedly.   
  
"Here," you say at the same time Nat blurts out 'the gym.'  
  
"Our first _date_ was here, babe," Natasha corrects, rubbing her thumbs over your knuckles. "We met in defense class."  
  
"Oh, fair," you say quickly. "If you can call that meeting." Natasha's eyes sparkle; she seems to really enjoy this game.  
  
"You beat the shit out of me," she says, and you nearly laugh at the impossibility. She looks like she could wrap any of her limbs around you and squeeze the ever-loving life out and still you'd probably thank her after. Sharon raises an eyebrow.   
  
"I find that hard to believe," she says. You shrug.   
  
"She let me. I bought her coffee afterwards as an apology." The second young woman from Sharon's table suddenly appears at her elbow.   
  
"Sharon. Leave them alone. Let's go home," she says in a hush. You haven't been surrounded by tense beautiful women like this in maybe your entire life. Valentine's Day could go a lot worse, in your estimation. "I'm sorry," she says to you sincerely.   
  
"This is Wanda," Natasha says, keeping both of your hands locked up tightly as if you're about to jump from your seat any minute. "Intervening as usual."  
  
"I'm just meeting her friend," Sharon insists. "No harm done. They met at the  _gym_ ," she adds pointedly. Wanda frowns.   
  
"Our gym?" Natasha blinks innocently.  
  
"Yeah. You missed defense class last month when you had that cold. Claire was there."  
  
"I only had a drop-in pass. Just the one time. I switched gyms already. Too intense." You are talking too much again and Natasha squeezes you reflexively. "Anyway. It was nice to meet you."  
  
"I'm sure we'll be seeing you again somehow. If not at the _gym_ ," Sharon replies, unaffected. "We're going home, Nat. I expect we won't see you until later." You don't quite understand what to make of this but Natasha cuts off what is about to be your next question.  
  
"Maybe not. Bye." Natasha smiles tightly as Sharon turns to leave, meeting her companion at the door and walking out. She tosses a final icy glare at you and Nat as they pass the window and Natasha continues to hold your hands until she is out of sight. She finally releases a relieved sigh. "Thank you for that. Holy shit."  
  
"I assumed," you begin, picking up your now-cooled latte, "that she was an ex and you were trying to make her jealous. But that's not the case, is it." Natasha shakes her head.  
  
"No."  
  
"So why exactly did you need a date so desperately just now?" You ask, fully cognizant of being used by this woman (and, what's worse, not hating it altogether.) Natasha chuckles.  
  
"My roommates are having a romantic movie marathon and I apparently drunkenly promised to take part, and when I tried to claim that I had a Valentine date they came along to catch me in the lie," she admitted. "It would have meant a month of dishes and trash or worse." You nod slowly, considering it.  
  
"You hate rom-coms that much?"  
  
"No," she admits with a bit of levity. "I just needed--- something different."  
  
"I feel that." In truth, something different is exactly what you needed today, too. "In that case, you're welcome. Not that it feels great to be an accomplice, mind."  
  
"You took to it very naturally." Natasha crosses her legs, sizing you up. You don't shrink under her gaze, as you might have before. You know behind this sharp, cool woman is a kid weaseling her way out of chores. You might be in love but it could be the soundtrack, unhelpfully tacky in this moment as you can almost feel Sam smugly watching the two of you from behind the counter.  
  
"Yeah, well. Wishful thinking will do that, I guess," you say. She seems to regard you differently suddenly, and takes your coffee from your hands.   
  
"This is cold. Do you want to get something stronger? Somewhere else?" For as smooth as she had been moments before, her question is stripped and genuine. "I owe you."  
  
"Uh huh. You have a lot of time to kill now, don't you?" You ask with a grin. Natasha laughs, finally, exquisitely.     
  
"Even if I could go home, which I cannot," she admits, "I don't think I would want to." You scarcely weigh your options for a fraction of the moment before your heart is speaking with your mouth.  
  
"In that case, let's keep your moms up late worrying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I love you!


	5. Sam

"And what if I want to sit right here at the bar and 'make a new friend?'" You throw air quotes around his choice of words. Sam considers you for a moment before shaking his head.  
  
"No good," he says, hoping to shut you down. "I'm not sitting at a red tablecloth. What, you don't like all these attractive choices? Not even the blonde guy?" You do not break eye contact with him as you slide onto a bar stool and challenge him.  
  
"Guess I'm paying for my drink." He can't help but smile at you then, folding his arms over his chest.  
  
"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?"  
  
"That's how it's gonna be, Cupid," you reply with mock exhaustion. You slide your coffee over and take a sip, resigned. When you look back up at him he is staring back, waiting for your move.   
  
"I'm not falling on my own arrow, Y/N," he says finally. You shrug.  
  
"I won't need one."  
  
"Well, shit. That's confidence. Okay, okay," he relents, breaking a bit. "I guess I am technically a Lonely Heart, be my guest."  
  
"Did I beat the game? Is this a loophole?" You bounce on your seat, near to giddy at this interaction. Sam shrugs and pours himself a mug of hot water.  
  
"Feels like it," he says, ripping open a tea bag. The water plumes violet and pink, some form of hibiscus or another. He looks around the shop and, seeing no immediate demand on his attention, pulls the step ladder from its position under the menu boards and sits opposite you. You both sip your drinks for a minute in relative silence, the Ella Fitzgerald of his Valentine playlist underscoring you doggedly.   
  
"Did you make up the game on purpose?" You finally ask him.  He shrugs, misunderstanding (or dodging) the question.  
  
"Well, yeah. So people would get together."  
  
"No," you rope him back, "I mean so _you_ wouldn't have to admit you're single. You don't have to play if you're the referee." He stares at you for a moment.  
  
"You a therapist? Or a cop?" He says, deflecting. You shrug.  
  
"Just curious, _Cupid_." Your emphasis makes him chuckle and something soft and sweet flashes beneath his eyes. He gives a little.  
  
"I guess maybe, yeah. That would be the subconscious answer," he relents. It's quiet again between you, neither of you diving into that conversation. The music catches your attention again and you roll your eyes.   
  
"You made this playlist especially for today, huh," you say as Boyz II Men starts playing. It feels for all the world like you should be slow dancing in a high school gymnasium, corsage at your wrist, colored lights twisting hypnotic about you as you press further together than propriety might assume. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to dance with him. The question is seared into your mind; unhelpfully your imagination provides the idea that he definitely, probably would hold you very tightly. Sam grins wide.   
  
"It's good, isn't it?"  
  
"If by good you mean truly horrible and sappy, then yeah, it's incredible. I'll give you a whole dollar if Foreigner isn't on this list," you say, sharp and challenging. His face falls. "Is it _I Want to Know What Love is_?" You ask, already knowing.   
  
"Shut up."  
  
"I nailed it, didn't I?" He pulls out his phone and the Spotify playlist that's going. The playlist is _called_ I Want to Know What Love Is and you immediately lose your mind. " _I knew it!_ Oh my god, I knew it. This is the schlockiest playlist on the planet. I love it," you say unironically, scrolling through the songs. "You have a gift."  
  
"Schlocky?" He repeats, appalled.  
  
"Trashy. Like so bad it is _so good,_ " you smile, handing him back his phone. "I bet you're a master of mixtapes, huh?"  
  
"I put a little too much time into these, yeah," he admits, skipping to the next song. "But you can't tell me Marvin Gaye is trashy," he says gravely. "You'll break my heart and ruin the whole day." You listen thoughtfully for a moment and nod slowly.  
  
"Not trashy. But it knows what it's about," you say pointedly.  
  
"Hell yes," he agrees. "Sweet lovin', straight up. No room for questions!" He declares, and you find yourself looking at him and having nothing _but_ questions and most of them begin and end with what he looks like underneath that cafe apron. You shake the thought and push your cookie plate towards him.  
  
"You want one?" You ask with a curling smile. He sips his tea.  
  
"Cute."  
  
"I'm serious. The guy at the counter gave me two for free and I feel guilty about being so sassy to him earlier because I was feeling bitter about his game and _then_ I went and insulted his great playlist. So it's not fair for me to eat them both..." You trail off and he very pointedly takes one off the plate.  
  
"Well I guess I can accept that," he says ambiguously, half the cookie gone in one bite. Bits of sugar frosting break off and cling to him; you are staring.   
  
"Big relief," you manage to say. His eyes are so warm and bright. It would be great if you could pry yourself from them but the pull is otherworldly.  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"Because now we're sharing and that definitely makes us friends," you grin. He hums appreciatively.   
  
"Ah. Kindergarten logic."  
  
"The most ancient magic," you explain. He finishes his cookie and you realize you haven't touched yours for watching him so closely.   
  
"Valentine's Day was a lot easier then," he muses, remembering. You pick up your cookie now, trying to look a little cooler than you feel.  
  
"You think so?" You ask, popping a piece of cookie in your mouth. Sam nods, leaning back with his tea in something of a reverie, a calm you feel radiating off him the way yoga instructors always explain chakra energy like a bright colored glow. You warm to it instantly.  
  
"Yeah. Children haven't learned yet the limitations on their capacity to love," he explains. "When you're navigating a romantic relationship you're loving with that same young heart but you're carrying fear from years of failing, or knowing that you might." You feel there must be more to this explanation, some story he doesn't yet want to share, and try to make light.  
  
"So our first love is the purest? Me and Lunchables forever?" You ask, grinning. He wrinkles his nose.  
  
"Lunchables are like five hundred percent sodium sandwiched between shitty crackers. Nobody loves Lunchables," he says with finality. You scoff.  
  
"You can't tell me what to love. My love is pure. It has no limitations!" You say, draining your latte. When you set it down he takes it and goes to make you another without asking.   
  
"I'm putting a limitation on your love and that limitation is nutrition facts," he says. "If all you eat is salt and caffeine you're going to be dead early."  
  
"And perfectly preserved in my youthful beauty and excessive salt," you say, making him laugh like spilled sunshine all over the cafe counter. "Like you've never loved anything terrible for you?" He considers the idea for a moment, looking at you critically with that spark of amusement.   
  
"You got me there. I have exceptionally bad taste," he says archly. "Apparently." He slides you the latte cup, which has chocolate laced over the foam this time. "More sweet for my salty Valentine," he says. You accept it graciously.   
  
"No little foam heart this time? You're sending mixed milk messages, Cupid."   
  
"I didn't think I could fit my whole phone number in there," he responds, and you see he's scribbling his phone number on a red napkin. "I owe you an apology."  
  
"What for?" You ask, taking the napkin and carefully tucking it in your pocket with a wide smile. Another customer comes in the front door and he gets up, back on the job. While the girl takes off her gloves and looks over the menu, Sam gives you an obvious wink, cheesy as possible.  
  
"You were right. No arrows necessary."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I love you!


End file.
